


Nothingness

by MooksMookin



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:42:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooksMookin/pseuds/MooksMookin
Summary: An unknown man has an internal monologue about the circumstances of his dead while he stands above his body.
Kudos: 3





	Nothingness

**Author's Note:**

> this is just vent word vomit you dont have to pay it any mind

It didn’t take long for reality to set in. He could see his body on the floor, disheveled, bloodied, expression frozen in shock with the life drained out of his eyes. There were stab wounds all over his body-- who did it, he didn’t know, couldn’t remember. The thought haunted him, chilled him to his now nonexistent bones. Who killed him? Why? For what reason? What had he ever done to deserve to be murdered in such a horrific way? The longer he examined his body, the more mutilated it became. Some of his fingers were cut off, some nails pulled. His right arm and left leg were clearly broken, almost snapped in half, or maybe even crushed. How could someone pull off crushing an entire bone? Did whoever did this to him have help? How many people could it have been? One? Two? Twelve? He didn’t know, was scared of finding out. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed-- blood stains. On the wall, dragged across the floor. Had he, in the final moments of his life, tried to escape from whoever had done this to him? He took a closer look at his dead body’s expression-- was it pain? Sorrow? Anguish? Despair? Nothing made sense. Did he even have an expression at all? What if his face was torn off and he couldn’t see it, and the expression he saw was just a reflection of his own self? Maybe his face was replaced with a mirror.

_ Ah,  _ he thinks.  _ Then it would have to reflect the whole room. It’s not, so it must be my final expression in life. _

The thought process made sense. It was the only thing that made sense in his chaotic state of mind. But he hated it-- this feeling, the realization that he’s dead, that someone killed him. It was someone, right? He couldn’t have done this to himself. There was no way he could’ve pulled off such a gruesome act by himself. In the first place, what led him to where he was now? He took a look around the room. It was a room he didn’t recognize, one he had never been to. But, wait, when  _ was _ the last place he had been to? He grips his head, his nonexistent head, and tries to remember. How much memory had he lost before he died? One day? Two? A week? A month? Everything felt unsure, his body rattled with the sound of his own bones shaking-- an impossible feeling, an impossible sound, and yet he can’t stop it, can’t help but hear it.

But, wait, who even was he? What was his name? Did he have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Husband or wife? Children? What about his family, his mom and dad? Did he have one? Both? Two of each? What was his life like before he died? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything. It was torture, this afterlife was torture. As he looked over his corpse, he swears he could see it rotting away. The skin turning yellow, body decomposing. Thank god he had no sense of smell, or he’s sure he would throw up from the would-be smell of rotting flesh.

…

How long had he been here? If his body was rotting… Why did no one come? Wasn’t someone worried about him? Wasn’t there anyone looking for him? Weren’t there any neighbors who might’ve noticed the smell? He tries to listen for some kind of clue-- nothing. He tries to move from his body-- impossible. He can’t leave this room. Why? Was he attached to his body? Was he going to haunt this place for all eternity? Had he done something bad in his life that deserved punishment decided by whatever holy power lay up there? He had never been a religious person, or so he thought. Was that why he was stuck here? Because his belief in a god culminated in nothingness? 

He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know anything. He was tired of thinking, tired of being awake, and yet he couldn’t sleep. There was nothing he could do, so he didn't do anything. 

There was nothing to do.

So he didn’t do anything.


End file.
